It wasn't unusual for Napoleon to lose track of his partner, one way or another. This time, though, Illya had been taken from right outside his apartment building. Though he'd heard about it within minutes, Napoleon was worried. And growing more worried as each further minute passed. Getting separated from Illya on a mission was one thing, something they were both well used to, but for his partner to be kidnapped off a New York street in the middle of the day was another matter all together. His tolerance for losing his partner was wearing thin. Every time it happened now, all Napoleon could think of was the possibility that this would be the last time, that this time he wouldn't get to Illya in time. He didn't want to think what his life would be like without his partner - that possibility stretched ahead in a dismal future that Napoleon wasn't sure he wanted to experience. For all that he might complain about his partner at times, Napoleon had begun to realize that he cared for Illya. And it was that realization that made him snappy with his partner sometimes, as he tried not to let those emotions overwhelm him. He didn't want to feel this way, it didn't fit well with his reputation. Napoleon had worked hard to create that reputation and discovering he was in love with his stoic, taciturn partner just didn't coincide with that. The implications of it were too much, they threatened to affect Napoleon's view of himself, to turn his world upside down. And Napoleon Solo liked his world just the way it was. But he'd like it more if he knew where his partner was.
When he woke, Illya found himself in yet another empty warehouse, the latest in a long line of deserted places he'd woken up alone in the time he'd been working for U.N.C.L.E. This time he was handcuffed to one of the hot water pipes that laced their way through the run-down building. Illya cursed quietly to himself, running through a well-practiced litany of Russian obscenities as he tried to piece together what had happened to bring him to this particular situation. His head hurt, pounding with a steady dull throb that seemed to echo his heartbeat - a sticky wetness on the side of his face proclaimed he had once again been hit on the head. Illya knew from frequent and painful past experience that head wounds always bled excessively, so he pushed his immediate concern about how badly he might be injured to the back of his mind as he surveyed his latest prison. Empty. No fittings, no furniture - nothing but the odd scrap of paper and a number of scuffmarks, made, he suspected, when they dragged him in here unconscious. All evidence that this warehouse had been little used in the recent past. There could be little or no chance of him being found by accident, or he wouldn't have been left here unguarded. There could be no chance of Illya's shouts for help being heard, or they wouldn't have left him ungagged - that or the people who had left him here didn't expect him to wake up at all. Turning his attention back from his surroundings to himself, Illya began the process of mentally assessing himself for injury - his head still pounded, but the clarity of his vision meant, he hoped, that he hadn't received a concussion. The head wound could after all be a minor one, despite the amount of blood that was currently congealing in his hair. Apart from some soreness round where the cuffs chafed his wrists, and the head wound, there seemed to be nothing else wrong with him. This puzzled Illya for a moment - why abduct him at all, if the plan was then to leave him in an abandoned warehouse relatively uninjured? The abduction itself had been well-organized and executed; they'd taken him unsuspecting between his car and the apartment building where he lived. That level of professionalism seemed to argue the involvement of Thrush, rather than a more random or purely criminal act. But where were his kidnappers now? The normal experience for an U.N.C.L.E. agent, on being abducted, was to wake up somewhere unexpected and find themselves on the receiving end of an interrogation, which would involve a greater or lesser degree of violence and torture, depending on who was responsible. This felt different somehow - unless they intended to leave him there to starve to death, what was the motivation behind his being there? Unless it was a trap, of course, a trap for his partner. Illya's heart seemed to skip a beat, as he realized the likelihood of this. How many times now? he wondered. Whenever they want to get Napoleon, I seem to be the method of choice for luring him into danger... As he thought about this, remembering all the times this tactic had been used successfully before, he heard what he assumed was the sound of the door to the warehouse grating open. Illya twisted round slightly in his restraints, to get a view of the new arrival, a small hope rising in his heart that it might be Napoleon. No. The new arrival was a woman, stylishly dressed, her hand gripping a knife that drew Illya's attention like a moth to a flame. She walked purposefully towards where Illya was hanging, eyeing him all the while. He forced himself to look at her face, tearing his gaze away from the silver blade she held so comfortably - what he saw there didn't comfort him, a lustful expression in her eyes made Illya shudder. Wisely, the woman chose to stop just out of reach of Illya's legs, which were untied - still silent, she continued to watch him as long minutes passed. Illya felt his eyelids begin to close, despite his struggles to keep awake. They felt weighted down, and he realized that he must, somewhere along the way, have been drugged. Time-release capsules, his struggling brain decided, even as sleep took him. When Illya woke again, it was to pain. He jerked awake as the knife cut into his side, slashing through the thin skin over his ribs. Illya stifled a scream as the pain hit him like ice water across his skin, and he bit down on his lower lip. He was still in the warehouse, still handcuffed, but now his legs were tied together, his ankles tethered to something he couldn't see, and his shirt had been removed. The woman he had seen before was there with him still, the knife in her hand now glistened with his blood. Illya could feel the warmth on his side as the blood trickled down. Still she was silent, but closed in on him again, knife raised, this time to target his other side. A wave of pain hit once more, its intensity in awful contrast to the size of the wounds that he knew the woman was inflicting on him. Illya bit down on his lip again, the taste of his own blood filling his mouth. Again and again, the woman raised her knife to cut into him - Illya forced himself to focus on her face, on the small smile that was her only reaction to the pain she was inflicting. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The door to the warehouse grated open once more. Its sound cut through even to Illya as he hung there, feeling the warm blood trickle down his torso from the myriad wounds the woman had inflicted. Through a haze of pain and disorientation Illya saw his torturer react. She turned, raising her knife instinctively towards the newcomer - a single shot rang out. The woman slumped backwards and the knife flew from her outstretched hand, its blade describing a glittering arc through the air before it clattered to the ground metres away. A cloud of dust blanketed the body of Illya's torturer for a moment as she hit the ground with a hollow thump. "Illya?" At the sound of the voice he'd so desperately hoped to hear, Illya felt himself slump in his bonds, relief washing through him. Once again, as he heard footsteps nearing where he still hung, his eyelids began to droop, the pain from the cuts on his sides now subsiding to a dull roar, and Illya drifted away into darkness.
One of these days it would happen. One of these days, Napoleon told himself, as he paced the corridor outside the infirmary, he'd be five minutes too late. Even two minutes might be too much in the wrong circumstances. This time, as he'd slipped quietly into the warehouse, for a moment he'd wondered if his luck had run out. He'd spotted Illya immediately of course, hanging limply in his bonds, blood trickling down his torso from a multitude of cuts. An unknown woman standing in front of him, a knife stained with his partner's blood still in her hand. From this distance Napoleon couldn't tell if Illya was still alive and he felt his blood run cold. She turned and he had no choice. The woman stood between him and his partner and her eyes were full of murder - murder by slow degrees, all aimed at Illya. Napoleon shot her without a second thought, crossing to where Illya still hung without bothering to look at her body as the dust settled around her. Napoleon remembered that his hand had shaken a little as he'd reached to check Illya's pulse, trying not to look at the blood that had trickled down his chest. The pulse was there, if a little faint, and Napoleon felt relief flood through him. After that it had been a matter of releasing Illya from his bonds, after he'd signalled for a medical team, then an interminable wait till they arrived. Illya's breathing was shallow, his face pale, and Napoleon tried not to think about the amount of blood he'd clearly lost. The cuts themselves had begun to close a little, just a trickle of blood leaving them now. Illya would be fine. He had to be. Napoleon kept telling himself that, hoping that he'd believe it, even as he continued to pace the corridor. Illya would be fine.
Illya studied the ceiling. It was one he had seen countless times before, when he had been injured during a mission, and he knew it intimately by now - the ceiling belonged to U.N.C.L.E.'s infirmary. A wave of half-remembered memory struck him then, and Illya struggled to sit up, though the room spun alarmingly round him as he did so. Firm hands grasped his shoulders and he was pushed gently back onto the bed. "Take it easy, Mr. Kuryakin," a calm voice said, "you've lost quite a lot of blood, so don't go jumping about." He tried to focus in the direction of the voice, the room now swimming gently round him. After some effort, Illya made out a smiling face, one of the doctors he had come to know well on his many visits there. "Dr. Cooper," he said, frowning as his voice croaked. The doctor disappeared from Illya's field of vision briefly; she returned with a tumbler full of ice chips, a few of which she spooned gently into Illya's mouth. "What happened?" Illya asked, once his throat felt a little less dry. He was reassured by the increasing steadiness of his voice. "How did I get here?" "You don't remember?" Dr. Cooper asked, frowning slightly. "Your partner brought you in." "He did?" Dr. Cooper nodded, then consulted a clip-board she had removed from its place at the bottom of the bed. "As I said before, Mr. Kuryakin," she continued, looking up at him once more, "you've lost a good deal of blood, not to mention that you're still suffering the effects of the sedatives that we found in your bloodstream. Do you remember anything about where you were? About what happened?" Illya considered the questions, but all he could remember was the glance of light on metal, the taste of blood in his mouth, the sound of a gunshot. "Not much," Illya admitted, after a moment. "It may come back. But if it does, it will happen at its own pace. For now, you need to get some rest." With that, the doctor gave Illya one last smile, replaced the clip-board and left Illya to his memories. When he woke from a fitful sleep, Illya frowned as he moved slightly, feeling the pull of bandages across his torso. He pulled up the hospital gown he was wearing, and stared at the gauze taped onto his sides, wincing slightly as even this small movement pulled at the slowly healing wounds. He was finding it difficult, Illya admitted to himself ruefully as he lowered the gown once more, to determine what was reality and what was dream or nightmare. Now it seemed he had part of an answer to that question. The woman with the knife he remembered had been real. Those were real cuts she had inflicted. Illya could still remember the taste of blood in his mouth - when he licked the inside of his lower lip, he felt a roughness there which surely had to be where he had bitten it to stop from crying out. Had they asked him anything? Interrogated him? Pried for information he had been trained to avoid giving? He couldn't remember. All that there was inside his head when he thought back was a jumble of images, light and dark, noise and silence. He started slightly as a shadow fell across the bed. "How are you feeling?" a familiar voice asked. "Fine, Napoleon," Illya replied without looking up. He put as much coolness into his tone as he could muster, dropping into their familiar kind of banter with a feeling of relief. "I understand I have you to thank for being here in the infirmary." "What else are partners for?" Napoleon joked lightly. He looked concerned, though, as if he was eyeing the paleness of Illya's face. "Indeed." "I should let you rest," Napoleon said suddenly, "Dr. Cooper will have my hide if she thinks I'm pestering you." Turning, Napoleon headed for the door. "Let me know if you need anything," he added, throwing the words back over his shoulder. Illya watched quietly as the door shut behind his partner. Something about Napoleon puzzled him, but it was elusive, and his tired mind chased it in a futile pursuit. Later, he decided, I'll think about it later. Three days later, Illya was released from the infirmary and sent home to recuperate. In the time he had spent there, Napoleon had visited him each day, like a dutiful partner should, flirting with the nurses and doctors alike as was his usual custom. His partner's reputation had preceded him as always, and Illya had been mildly entertained during the tedium of a forced stay in the infirmary, to see the tactful and professional way they all managed to brush the American agent off. But now he was going home, and for that, at least, Illya was glad. Maybe now he would have a chance for the peace and quiet he would need in order to re-assemble his memories, and figure out what had really happened to him in that warehouse. He had pressed his partner for details, but the usually talkative Napoleon had been reticent for once. Illya had seen a copy of Napoleon's report, but it had been sketchy to say the least - its conciseness had niggled at him, creating a feeling that the report concealed more than it revealed. Still, once he'd had a chance to think, Illya was confident that he could put his finger on what it was about the whole affair that seemed so wrong. Back in his apartment, Illya had puttered about, putting on a record, sorting through the mail that had accumulated during his time away. Ordinary, everyday tasks, so why did they feel somehow wrong? This is not helping, Illya thought, as he made himself some coffee. As he stood and drank it, gazing out of the apartment window over the New York skyline like any other day, Illya thought back. He found himself wracking his brain for the tiniest of details, anything to help him remember what it was his brain seemed so desperate to put to one side. I was in a warehouse... he thought. Obviously there was someone else there with me... a woman? I remember a knife... Does that mean I was tortured? Interrogated? What other explanation could there be for the cuts? So why can't I remember any more? Illya's head began to pound as he tried to force himself to remember, a rhythmic pounding that seemed to echo across the room. "Illya?" The pounding continued, louder now. "ILLYA?" No, not his head after all - there was a hammering on the door, Napoleon's voice coming from outside, a note of concern clearly lacing through it. Illya reached the door in a couple of strides, opening it suddenly - Napoleon was outside, his foot raised to kick the door open, leaning back, his U.N.C.L.E. Special clutched tightly in his hand. As the door opened, Napoleon grinned a little sheepishly, taking in the pallor of Illya's face and also the position he had been discovered in. "Are you okay?" Napoleon asked, still sounding concerned. "I am fine." "Then why didn't you answer the door? I was just about to kick it in. I thought.." "I know what you thought, Napoleon," Illya interrupted, "but you would be wrong. Did you come here for any particular reason or just to kick my door down?" Even as he spoke, Illya was aware of the coldness in his tone, but the uncertainty he was feeling had caught him off-guard. Normally he made allowances for his partner's impulsive behavior, but Illya's patience was currently stretched to near breaking point, and his temper was fraying slightly. "I came to see if you were okay," Napoleon said patiently, "so are you going to invite me in or do we have to have this conversation in the hallway?" "By all means," Illya said, stepping back to allow his partner to enter. As he always did when entering a new room, even one which, like Illya's apartment, he had been in many times before, Napoleon's eyes automatically swept round it. They catalogued the furniture, its position, the ways in and out, a myriad of calculations going on within the U.N.C.L.E. agent's brain. Seemingly satisfied with what he saw, Napoleon turned back as Illya was shutting the door. "Why haven't you been answering your communicator?" he asked, eyeing Illya as the Russian walked across to where he had left his half-drunk cup of coffee. "My communicator?" Illya asked, puzzled. "I was sent home on medical leave, with strict orders to rest. And anyway, I don't know where my communicator is, Napoleon...." He sighed, the frustration of the past few days and his lack of memory very near the surface. "I thought so," Napoleon said, and reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a communicator. "So, I brought you a new one. I knew that if you weren't answering, there could only be two reasons - either you were in trouble, or you had lost your communicator. I came prepared for both." "Thank you," Illya said, reaching his hand out for the device. "This is different from my last one." "New design," Napoleon replied, "or so the people in Section 8 tell me.." There was silence for a moment, as Illya finished his coffee - as he drank the last of the dregs, he thought that Napoleon was watching him, but when he turned to look at his partner, the American was looking somewhere else. "What was it anyway?" Illya asked, crossing to the kitchen. "What?" "You said you'd been trying to get hold of me..?" Illya prompted. "Oh. Yes. The old man wants to see us," Napoleon replied. "You ready to go?" Taking one last look around, Illya picked up his jacket - shrugging his arms into the sleeves, he gestured to Napoleon to lead the way, following him out.
Try as he might, Napoleon couldn't get rid of the image of Illya's battered body in the warehouse. He'd killed his partner's torturer without a second thought, without even giving her the chance to surrender, though the look in her eyes had been enough to convince him that surrender was the last thing on her mind. The idea of killing a woman, no matter what the circumstances, didn't sit well with him, but he'd done it anyway. As he'd thought about it, running over the events for his report to Waverly, Napoleon wondered just how much of his actions had been fuelled by fear for his partner's safety and how much by a desire for revenge. After all, till he reached Illya's side, Napoleon couldn't be sure his partner was still alive. He'd have let nothing and no one stand in the way of rescuing Illya anyway. That was hardly the behavior expected of the Chief Enforcement Agent, was it? As he signed the report, Napoleon wondered just what Waverly would think if he ever told him the unvarnished truth about what had happened in the warehouse. That was assuming he knew the truth himself. He could only think about how he'd felt seeing Illya just hanging there, not that this sight was a completely new one. Nor could he forget the relief that had struck him like a blow once Napoleon discovered that his partner was still alive to be rescued. But he couldn't write about those, choosing to make his report as bland and unemotional as any he'd ever written, not wanting to give Waverly the slightest crack in their partnership to exploit, one way or another. Would the old man be critical of any implication that Napoleon's feelings towards his partner had affected the mission? Napoleon knew he would. He might even suggest they placed that partnership in danger, or could prove detrimental to U.N.C.L.E. itself. If that was the case, Napoleon knew that all the fondness that Waverly held for either of them as individuals wouldn't prevent him signing the order to send Illya back to the labs or even back to U.N.C.L.E. London and giving Napoleon another partner, whether they liked it or not. How could Napoleon explain such a separation to his partner in a way that wouldn't make it crystal clear just why they were being separated? Illya would see through any attempted deception in a heartbeat, would know that it was because of Napoleon's weakness that their partnership was being dissolved. He could imagine the look on Illya's face, the comments about American self-indulgence, the scorn he would see there. He couldn't allow that to happen, couldn't let himself be separated from Illya, even though it was torture to see him like this. To be so close, to spend such a vast amount of time together, knowing that Illya had no suspicion that his partner wanted more from him than just a working partnership.
No matter how many times he went there, and the course of his normal work meant it was a frequent occurrence, Illya never got over being surprised. Not by the office, but by the man it contained - Alexander Waverly, at first appearance a bluff old man, in fact had a brain far sharper than he let on, with a mind like a steel-trap in many ways. His finger was on the pulse that beat through U.N.C.L.E., not just in New York, but round the world, but his demeanor belied that - instead, he seemed to revel in presenting himself to the world as something of an absent-minded professor. "Ah. Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin," he said, looking up from the folder he was studying as the two agents entered his office. "Good." Illya took a seat, glad for once to rest there - he was more tired than he was willing to let on. Napoleon perched on the edge of another chair, a slightly anxious look flitting across his face for a fraction of a second, before it was replaced by his trademark smile and he settled back into the chair's depths, crossing his legs. Mr. Waverly consulted his folder again for a moment, while the agents waited. "I'm sorry to pull you in from your medical leave, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said, fixing Illya with an implacable stare, "but I felt that you should be involved in this mission. Unless, of course, you don't feel up to it?" "I am fine, sir," Illya said, holding Mr. Waverly's gaze as steadily and confidently as he could. This answer seemed to satisfy the older man, though Illya could have sworn he heard Napoleon make a disapproving sound from where he sat beside him. "I'd like you to study these files, gentlemen," Waverly said, gesturing towards a pile of folders that stood in front of him before turning the circular desk so the teetering pile was placed in front of where Napoleon sat. "It appears we have a leak, here in U.N.C.L.E. New York, and I would like you to find the culprit." "A leak, sir?" Illya asked incredulously. "Indeed, Mr. Kuryakin. It would seem that someone has slipped through the net and is passing information to Thrush." Waverly picked up his pipe as he spoke, and fiddled with it as he continued. "Nothing high-level as yet, which may be a reflection of the status of our leak, or it may just be a matter of time before they get their hands on something more important." "We'll get right on it, sir," Napoleon said, speaking for the first time since the two men had entered Waverly's office. Waverly nodded his approval and dismissal all at once - the two agents collected the pile of folders between them, then left the room, Napoleon taking the lead as usual. Illya found himself watching the back of Napoleon's head as he followed him, as if it might provide him with some sort of revelation. Through the twists and turns of the corridors, he was only marginally aware of the passing of other members of U.N.C.L.E.'s staff, his mind filing away the way they smiled at Napoleon, then nodded at him. It was all so very normal, and somehow disturbing as a result - he'd expected someone else to notice the difference but Illya seemed to be alone in noticing that something important had changed. Turning into Napoleon's office, Illya closed the door behind them. He crossed over to the desk, dropping the files he was carrying onto its surface, and watched them slither across the polished surface. Suddenly he felt himself under scrutiny and looked up, catching Napoleon's eyes on him, a strange expression on his face - Illya felt as though he were being measured in some way, that the American was examining him. Illya's automatic reaction was to want to look away, uncomfortable, despite his friendship with the other agent. The way Napoleon was so openly examining him made Illya uncomfortable but he steeled himself against his instinctive response - for no reason he could have explained, Illya simply looked back, until Napoleon looked away himself. After an awkward moment of silence, Napoleon gestured towards a nearby chair, turning his back on Illya before he spoke, and consulting one of his own pile of files. "Sit down before you fall down, Illya," he said, "you don't have to play the stoic Russian all the time, you know..." Illya blinked at that, at the emotion in the other man's tone. Napoleon sounded.. flustered? Staring at the back of the American agent's neck, Illya swore he could see a redness lurking there, and realized his partner was blushing, unaware that turning his back was not enough to camouflage this. Illya tried to turn his attention to the matter at hand, but his brain was whirling, a dizzy dance of words, theories and assumptions, all pointing towards one inexorable conclusion. His usually unflappable partner, the man with ice-water in his veins, was well and truly disturbed about something and that something involved Illya somehow. Thinking back, the Russian contemplated the report he had read on his capture and rescue, its terseness clear in his mind. There was nothing there out of the ordinary - he had been kidnapped before; tortured before, often with more lasting results; he had been rescued before, generally by Napoleon. Those items were mentally ticked off the list. What had been different about this mission? Shaking his head slightly, Illya sighed. No matter what way he looked at the situation, he could see nothing that was out of the ordinary, yet his partner was reacting in a tangibly different way to him. Where was the teasing, the familiar banter? Napoleon still flirted efficiently and effectively with whatever woman he came across, that certainly had not changed, but the essence of the man himself seemed somehow diminished. Looking up from the folder whose contents he was meant to be studying, Illya caught Napoleon unawares again. This time the American was staring at him, and his eyes held an expression Illya had seen there before. Napoleon blushed, a tide of red sweeping up his face in a way Illya had neither seen before or had been able to imagine his self-assured partner being able to do. It was the kind of furious blush that teenagers specialize in, not urbane secret agents. He had been right. There was something different about Napoleon, and now Illya knew its name. The look he had caught on Napoleon's face had confirmed it, as had his reaction on being observed. More calmly than he could have imagined reacting, Illya stood, placing the file he had been pretending to study back on the pile of its fellows. "I need to check in with Dr. Cooper, Napoleon." He was proud of the steadiness of his voice when he spoke. "I'll see you later, then?" Napoleon's voice turned the statement into a question, the slight tremble there in his tone apparent for anyone who concentrated. "Of course," Illya replied, heading for the door. Outside in the corridor, Illya let out the breath he'd been holding, and headed towards the infirmary. On the trip down, his mind worked over the facts he had accumulated, but no matter how he examined them, Illya was forced to face the same conclusion. His partner, his aggressively heterosexual partner, the one who flirted with every woman who crossed his path, had looked at him with an emotion in his face that could only be interpreted as desire.
He'd never considered the possibility. As Illya left the office, Napoleon was left wondering, giving real thought to the possibility that there might be more going on with his taciturn partner than met the eye. It wouldn't be the first time Illya had surprised him, though that happened less often as their time together continued, but it was rarely over something so important. Not that those sharp blue eyes missed much, Napoleon had to admit. Illya was clever and perceptive, two traits that had stood him in good stead as an U.N.C.L.E. agent, and Illya wasn't averse to using both those elements of his persona on his partner. So it wasn't an unusual occurrence for Napoleon to find himself being watched by Illya, his eyes missing nothing, that relentless brain filing away every piece of information for later study. It had made him a little uncomfortable when they'd first been partners, but Napoleon had grown accustomed to it - he found himself feeling almost bereft when Illya ignored him now, though doubtless that was his partner's intention as well. But he'd never expected things between them to be mutual, reciprocal. Napoleon had grown so used to the idea of desiring his oblivious partner that he'd never taken the time to consider the possibility that Illya might feel something towards him as well. And, of course, now that the seed of an idea had been planted, that was all Napoleon could think about. He knew it was probably a world away from the reality of any kind of relationship the two of them might have, but he couldn't help himself. If there was one word to describe him, Napoleon knew that he was a romantic individual. Not someone who was a lover of hearts and flowers, though he had to appreciate the results of a carefully-planned use of the latter, but someone who believed in destiny. If he ever told Illya, his sceptical partner would probably laugh in his face, but he'd always believed that they had been put together for a reason. And if that reason encompassed more than just saving the world on a regular basis, if it allowed the two of them some happiness along the way, who was Napoleon Solo to complain?
Illya had never been uncomfortable with the expression of his sexuality. A hard childhood, filled with pain and lack of all the things that human life requires, had prepared him to become someone who took pleasure where he could find it. He would be left feeling guilty when he enjoyed something, but be driven somehow to explore further. His inquisitive mind had pushed the boundaries, and he had explored the darker recesses of his desires - all secretly and dispassionately. Passion was dangerous for a child of the labor camps - it led to emotions he could never afford to experience. And so the child had become the man. A heart filled with fire, hidden well behind a stoic facade. Illya knew how his colleagues spoke of him. He did not approve or disapprove, to him their attitude simply was. If they thought him cold, those thoughts protected him, setting a safe space between them and the fierce independence of his spirit. A small part of his mind was amused at them, it laughed quietly at their assumptions about him, that he was ice all the way through. Illya alone knew the depths of his passion, the strength of the fire that burned inside him. He had been alone for such a long time, his loneliness was like a second skin. Until the day he met Napoleon Solo. Nothing in Illya's life had prepared him for that day - for once, his defences were inadequate. His protection against the force of nature that was the American proved futile. Napoleon was a tidal wave, and Illya was swept away. If he envied the American, Illya never gave an outward sign of it. He watched, he listened, he mentally catalogued. And if Napoleon was aware of this scrutiny, he gave no sign, and for that Illya was thankful. It would have been too difficult to explain the attraction he felt, the need to be a part of the agent's circle - if they had not been partners, there would have been no chance of this, but Waverly had thrust them together, for some purpose of his own, never explained, and that was the end of it. Through the years they had been partners, Napoleon had become the closest thing to family that Illya possessed - he had thought there were no secrets between them, no thoughts of which he was unaware, but clearly he had been wrong. Or had he? Illya pondered this. Much as he hated visiting the infirmary, he had needed an excuse to get out of Napoleon's office, but he didn't put it past his partner to check up on him. That kind of suspicious nature had kept the two of them alive for so many years that paranoia was second nature. As the elevator doors slid open silently, and Illya headed down the corridor, he considered the possibilities, weighing them up in his mind. Clearly there were gaps in his recent memories - he could still only remember fleeting glances of the events of the past few days, the rest dancing tantalizingly out of his mind's reach. Napoleon had rescued him from the warehouse in which he was being held, killing his captor in the act of torturing him. Illya had the scars to prove the torture had happened, the slashes on his torso were there to prove that the woman he remembered had existed, whatever the motivation behind her actions. What was it that was wrong? Things had seemed strange somehow, too normal - Illya was aware that he alone felt this, that no one else seemed to even suspect that things were not as they seemed. That was the most frustrating thing about the whole matter. If he asked anyone, talked about it, somehow Illya knew the look he would receive in return, the bewilderment he would see upon their faces. He would have to test his hypothesis. Only then could he prove himself right, or set his mind at ease. Either way he would know for certain. Dr. Cooper had been surprised to see him, Illya decided, as he headed out of the infirmary. Though she'd disguised her surprise as quickly as she could, the professional façade slipping into place within a matter of moments, Illya had not been fooled. He wasn't surprised at her response - usually it took more than a quietly-voiced request to get him back for a check up. As the doors to the infirmary slid shut behind him, Illya contemplated the decision he had made. He had turned it over in his mind while he was being examined, concentrating just enough on Dr. Cooper to give the appropriate taciturn answers to her questions, while his mind worked furiously on a plan of attack. He knew there were risks involved, but he believed he had calculated them accurately. As with any mission, there came a time when you just had to take a chance and jump in, and that time was approaching Illya fast. Illya paused outside Napoleon's office door, took a deep breath and knocked. No answer. Illya pushed hesitantly at the door, which swung open silently before him. The room was deserted, piles of files still laying scattered across the desk. The office was just as Illya remembered it, as if no time had passed since he had left - all that was missing was his partner. Illya smiled to himself, a small, slightly calculating smile. He had been right after all. Pulling the door closed, Illya turned and walked off down the corridor, a hunter in search of his prey. Illya searched the building, from Research to Records and all departments in between. By the end of it, his legs were aching, his head throbbing slightly, but he had not found the man he was looking for. Returning to his own office this time, Illya opened the door, a small part of him expecting Napoleon to be there, even though the American rarely visited the room. Nothing. Every piece of evidence was falling into place - there was something strange about Napoleon's behavior, and each new proof added depth to that hypothesis. Despite the American's carefully cultivated air of casual nonchalance, Napoleon was a conscientious agent, not one to shirk his duties lightly. If Waverly gave his agents a mission, then he expected them to complete that mission, or he would be very disappointed in them. Pulling the door closed, Illya left headquarters, heading home. There was little he could do alone to establish where the leak was coming from, and suddenly he felt very tired. That night, Illya's sleep was restless, filled with flickering images that made no sense. He was in the warehouse again, handcuffed to the pipe once more, but this time it was Napoleon who stood there, a cold blackness to his eyes, knife in his hand. Illya felt, rather than heard, himself scream in agony, but to no avail. Again and again the knife glittered, warm blood trickled down his sides, but this time there was no one to rescue him. Illya knew, with a terrible certainty, that this warehouse would be the place where he would draw his last breath, and a coldness gripped his heart. The last thing he saw was his partner, his friend, stepping closer, knife raised. Then a hand wrapped itself round his face, muffling all sound, and he saw the knife descend. Illya woke with a scream, a shriek that echoed round the empty darkness of his apartment. With one hand he fumbled for his U.N.C.L.E. special, flailing for the bedside lamp with the other. Even as the light came on, Illya's terror subsided, and his rational mind took over. Despite how terrifying it had been, it had been just a nightmare. Illya's heart continued to pound, the adrenaline still rushing through him, as he sat on the bed, pulling his legs up and wrapping his arms around them. Laying his head on his bent knees, Illya tried to slow his pulse, breathing deeply, and after a long moment the shaking began to subside. Sleep eluded Illya for the rest of the night. Once his shaking had stopped, his analytical mind took over, seeking to make sense of his nightmare, to gain control of the experience. What could it mean? To Illya it seemed clear, a direct reference to what he was planning, the course of action he was intending to take - his subconscious was telling him, as if he needed reminding, of the risk he would be taking, the possible outcomes. The morning came slowly, but by the time the daylight arrived, Illya's mind was made up - regardless of the risks, there was no other choice for him. He had to know. "Morning, Illya!" Napoleon's voice was cheerful, ringing out down the corridor, maybe a little more loudly than he meant it to be. He looked unabashed, though, as he neared where Illya was waiting - Illya had paused on seeing Napoleon heading his way, internally steeling himself to put his plan into action. "Good morning, Napoleon," Illya replied, hoping he appeared more calm than he was feeling, his eyes locking onto Napoleon's as his partner reached him. Napoleon held his gaze for a long moment, before he tore himself away, reddening slightly and gestured down one of the corridors, in the direction of his office. "Shall we?" he asked. Nodding, as he somehow suppressed a small triumphant smile, Illya led the way, conscious of the man walking beside him. "Where did you get to yesterday?" Illya asked, not looking round. "I came back to your office after my check-up, but you'd gone." "I.. er.. I was called away." Really? Illya thought sardonically. Now surely you've had time to come up with a better excuse than that, my friend. They reached the door to Napoleon's office, the rest of the journey conducted in silence. The files were still lying where they'd been left, scattered across the American's desk, and Napoleon seemed pre-occupied with the chaos there. For a few moments, he busied himself in gathering up the files, turning towards Illya when he had assembled them all. All the time Napoleon's back was towards him, Illya watched his partner, admiring the play of muscles through the well-tailored suit. Even when Napoleon turned back to him, the files clutched against his chest, Illya's eyes lingered. Napoleon seemed to swallow slightly, as he realized the way that Illya was watching him, and a slight tinge of red crossed his face. Today he seemed to have better control of himself, compared to the adolescent flush that had swept over him the day before. Napoleon opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again, looking like nothing more than a fish gasping on dry land. "Shall we get started on the files again?" Illya asked, rising from his chair, hand outstretched towards the files his partner was holding. Was it his imagination, or did Napoleon take a minute step backwards when Illya got up from his seat? "Oh... er... of course," Napoleon stuttered, lowering the files carefully onto the surface of the desk. It didn't escape Illya's attention that his partner was keeping the desk between himself and where Illya was standing, or that eye contact between the two of them was non-existent. Napoleon's eyes were on the files, his hands busily sorting through them, as he separated them into two heaps as before. The two agents read for a while in silence. The only sound in the office was the turning of paper and the ticking of a nearby clock. Illya tried to concentrate on what he was reading - details of missions, information, agent's personal details, all of which had been leaked to Thrush over the past few weeks. There was a common thread here, he was sure of it, but his mind struggled in vain to see the connection. All that he could see was that the missions were all controlled by the New York office, so it seemed likely that the leak was here, in Headquarters. The ticking of the clock seemed to grow louder and louder in the silence - Illya risked a glance at his partner, who seemed engrossed in the file he was reading. Very convincing, Illya thought with an internal smile, but you need to keep turning the pages, Napoleon, or else it's obvious that all you're doing is staring at the same one. Illya let the silence drag on for a few minutes longer, then spoke quietly, his voice still shattering the stillness and making Napoleon jump. "Look at this," he said, spreading a number of the files he had been studying across the desk in front of him. Putting down the file he had been pretending to study, Napoleon got up from his chair, reluctance clear in every line of his body and came round to where Illya was sitting. "What?" he asked, bending over the files and studying them for whatever it was Illya had seen. Illya rose from his chair and stood beside his partner, deliberately insinuating himself into the other agent's personal space. Illya almost pressed himself against Napoleon, his arm casually brushing against the other's, staying so near that he could feel the heat rising from his partner's body. "This is the key," Illya said, reaching as casually as he could across his partner to indicate a few paragraphs in each file. "Our leak is in this office," Illya continued, ignoring the minuscule tremors that were being transferred to him from Napoleon's body. Today his partner might be able to school his face to obey him more completely, but his body, and its reactions to Illya being so close, continued to betray him. "How is that possible, Illya?" Napoleon asked, his voice steady. Well done, Illya thought, a coherent question and your voice so controlled, so calm. If I couldn't feel the way you are shaking, my friend, I'd almost be convinced you felt nothing. "After all," Napoleon continued, "the security clearances necessary to work for U.N.C.L.E. at all, let alone in this office, should make that impossible." "Where there is a system, Napoleon," Illya replied, "there is always a way round it. We know that." "So now what?" "Now," Illya said, "we set a trap to catch a mole."
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Continued in Part 2... | |